


Liasions

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-15
Updated: 2006-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8090608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: (01/05/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Noncon M/M sex. Be warned that it contains a rape scene; not the usual sort of thing I write (I generally produce fluff) but I hope it doesn't come across as insensitive.  


* * *

_March 12th, 2142_

_San Francisco, CA_

Jonathon Archer paused in the doorway of the club, smoothing a palm over the short strands of his hair before adjusting the collar of his shirt.

The bar was packed solid with hot, sweaty bodies, dancing and drinking and talking and kissing. They were all strangers to him—no one here gave a shit who he was, what he did for a living, who his father was. To them he was nothing more than a piece of ass; warm, yielding flesh.

And that was exactly how he wanted it. No ties, no damn emotions, just sex. Anonymous, take-no-names-take-no-numbers, leave at dawn hot and sweaty fucking. Like the name of the club—a liasion. Which was not anything he'd wanted before—love and sex went together in his relationships—but that was a load of shit, right? Joanna had shown him that, tearing his heart out and grinding it into the ground with ruthless efficiency. Telling him that she didn't love him. That she was seeing someone else, his best friend. She obviously didn't care about love, so why should he? He scanned the crowd as he pushed his way through the throng of people. Everywhere he looked he could see—well. Straining cloth covering tented crotches, fabric pulled taut over heaving breasts. He decided that he was off women for the time being—he wanted to meet some blond Adonis of a guy and pound him through the mattress. It had been a long time since he'd slept with a man, and, Hell, women hadn't exactly been working out all that well for him.

Jon made it to the bar and ordered a beer. He wanted to get as drunk as possible, as quickly as possible.

Beer in hand, he turned his back to the bar and people- watched. Plenty of guys were easy on the eyes, and he saw more than a few that he would be more than willing to spend the night with. And he was receiving his own share of admiring looks. He played it up shamelessly, leaning one elbow on the mahogany bar, and thrusting his crotch forward. He was wearing his tightest pair of pants, and a butter soft navy blue silk shirt that clung to him like a second skin. He knew he had a damned good body—years of Starfleet training and good genetics saw to that—and he saw no shame in showing it off a little. He'd left his hair tousled and awry, going for that 'just out of bed after being screwed all night and day' look that people seemed to find appealing on him.

A man came over and stood next to him, pressing up close. "Hey." He was blond and built, exactly what Jon had in mind when he came to the bar.

"Hey," Jon echoed, taking a drink. He was trying hard to play it cool, like he did this all the time.

"Buy you a drink? You're running low." The man reached out to caress Jon's hand briefly, before moving to run up and down the neck of the beer bottle in a highly suggestive manner.

Jon gulped. "Uh—sure. Sure." He downed the rest of his beer in one long swallow, setting the empty bottle down on the bar. The man's little show had got him semi-hard, and he squirmed in discomforted pleasure, trying to ease the pressure.

Holding two beers in one hand, the guy took Jon's hand in his and tugged him close. "Let's get a table." He was right up close, and his breath tickled Jon's ear.

"OK." Feeling that he should be a little bit more—well, proactive, Jon took the lead and led the way to the tables set against the wall. One was just freeing up as they got there, and he claimed it before anyone else could.

"So, what's your name, gorgeous?" the man asked.

There went being anonymous. "Uh—Jack. You?"

"Tony. So, what do you do for a living, Jack?"

"I—I'm a teacher. Kindergarten." His bottle was empty again, and he gestured towards it. "I need to go get another drink, OK?" He got to his feet, and Tony stood.

"Let me get it." He placed a hand on Jon's shoulder and ran it down the length of his arm in a gentle caress, before leaning forward to whisper in his ear; "I don't want anyone else in this room getting a look at that great ass of yours and stealing you away from me."

Jon sat back down and nervously jiggled his foot, waiting for Tony to come back. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry, as arid as a desert.

Tony—who also had a great ass, in addition to a magnificent pair of legs, a muscular chest and a perfectly chiselled face—returned with yet more alcohol. "Do you like to dance, Jack?" Tony had slipped his shoe off, and his foot was working its way along Jon's thigh and towards his crotch.

Jon gasped as Tony's toes brushed against his dick. "Yeah. Yeah, I like to dance."

"Then come on, baby." Pulling Jon to his feet, Tony slipped an arm around his waist and clamped a possessive hand on his ass. Jon returned the favor, grabbing a handful of Tony's firm backside, massaging the taut muscle. Hip to hip, they manoeuvred their way out onto the dance floor.

The music was loud, driven by a pulsating back beat. Pressed up close together, crotch to crotch, chest to chest, they danced, little more than a bump and grind. Their movements got Jon heated and he impulsively pulled Tony close for a kiss.

Tony responded with enthusiasm, thrusting a talented tongue into Jon's mouth. One hand tangled in Jon's hair, and the other slipped down the back of his pants, palm cupping one cheek of his ass. Jon pushed his own hands up under Tony's shirt and caressed soft skin stretched across broad shoulders. His world narrowed down until it consisted of two bodies, heat at his mouth, his dick, his ass. Tony's hand was busy. He'd slipped it down far enough that he could push a finger into Jon.

The sensation shot through Jon's hypersensitive body and he moaned, pressing his face into the curve of Tony's shoulder, breaking off the kiss so that he could catch his breath. He sucked gently on the skin below his partner's ear, marking him.

Tony's hand was suddenly down the front of Jon's pants, latching onto his erection with none-too-gentle fingers. He squeezed, roughly, and Jon hissed, growing even harder. "Let's go back to my apartment." Jon's arousal vanished and his self-confidence fled, leaving him sick to his stomach. What the hell was he doing? This wasn't him. He couldn't do this, it was too impersonal. He'd never gone in for one night stands before and it seemed like he couldn't now. And he couldn't delude himself into thinking he could make a relationship out of this—he was on the rebound, big time.

"I—uh—I have to go. I'm sorry." With a brief, apologetic kiss to the man's cheek, he turned and practically ran from the club, leaving a very disappointed man behind him.

Once outside, he staggered into an alley and vomited violently. The awful sick feeling in his stomach didn't subside and worse, his head began to pound.

Dragging a hand across his mouth and making a face at the bitter taste on his tongue, he hitched in a couple of deep, unsteady breaths, and headed for his apartment. It was maybe 15 blocks south of the club, a 30-minute walk. He decided against hailing a cab—he could use the fresh air, and he didn't entirely trust his stomach not to rebel against the motion of the cab.

The nausea was almost unbearable and he had to keep stopping in order to retch, dry heaves mostly. Sweat beaded across his brow and cheek. He wasn't sure if he was suffering because of a virus, too much alcohol, or nervous reaction; possibly even a combination of all three. He'd been working himself into the ground for the past month, and he knew he hadn't been taking as good care of himself as he should, skipping meals, skimping on sleep.

The 30-minute walk ended up taking him an hour. He'd sobered up a little; the headache was now a dull roar rather than a Starfleet Brass band, and he'd stopped puking, though the nausea was still there. He chalked the episode up to over-indulgence on an empty stomach and emotional response. He wasn't cut out for the casual sex scene.

He let himself into his apartment and headed straight for the shower. He stripped and set the water temp as cold as he could stand. The icy blast chilled his skin, but chased away some of the mental fog; he felt much better when he stepped out of the shower. Towel wrapped around his waist, he used another to scrub the moisture from his hair, then, more than ready to crawl into bed, he turned the light off and went through into the dimly lit bedroom.

There was a man standing there. Tall and broad, he looked as mean as hell.

"Who the hell are you?" Jon snapped. "Get the fuck out of here before I call the police."

"I've been watching you," the man said quietly. "All night, I've been watching you. Dancing with that guy." He moved closer, but Jon held his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"How did you get in?" Jon changed his stance slightly, moving into a position of readiness, prepared to defend himself.

"Through the door. You didn't lock it. I followed you from the club." He was right up in Jon's face now, his whisky-stink breath foul. "And you know what? You're a fuckin' cocktease." His hand shot out and grabbed Jon by the throat.

Jon bought his arm up and broke the chokehold, trying to push aside the wave of fear that washed over him. He kicked and clawed and fought his hardest, but the man had nearly a foot in height and 70 lbs. on him and eventually overpowered him. Jon was bleeding and bruised and semi-conscious when his attacker shoved him down on the floor.

"No," he muttered, trying to writhe away from the man's insistent weight. His arms were pinned above his head, and held there by one meaty hand.

He'd lost his towel at some point in the fight, leaving him naked and vulnerable on the rough pile of the carpet. The man forced Jon's legs apart, kneeling between his thighs. "I'm gonna show you what happens to cockteases, honey." He thrust into Jon, leaning forward to press a kiss against his lips.

Jon bit him, hard, tasting blood, and tried to buck him off, fighting with renewed energy and determination, even though inside he was breaking in two, crumbling. He had to fight.

The rapist backhanded him, splitting his lip. Another blow landed, blacking his eye. Then the hand was back at his throat, squeezing. Jon struggled for breath, his vision wavering as he fought to get oxygen into his abused body. The pressure eased, and he sucked in desperate breaths, gasping. His body was a mass of agonising pain, and he felt like he was being ripped into pieces.

The man finished with a shout, heat filling Jon. He lay under the crushing weight, too pain-wracked and emotionally numb to do anything but try and sink into the rug. He gave a little grunt of discomfort as the man pulled out of his torn flesh, but gave no other outward sign of his pain, focusing inward. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

The man got to his feet, zipping his pants. He kicked Jon in the ribs. "See what happens when you lead someone on?"

Jon rolled onto his side, curling in on himself. "Get out." His voice was small and rough, reduced to a mere whisper as it struggled to get out of his bruised larynx. He struggled to a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his torso. "Just get out."

"Don't try calling the police. You do, and I'll come back and finish the job." Spitting at Jon, he left.

Jon found his towel and pulled it around him, getting to his feet. He held himself rigid, trying to limit the pain as his aching body protested his moving.

He assessed his injuries. Blood stained his thighs, and his chest and abdomen were a mass of bruises. His face felt hot and swollen, and when he touched a hand to his lip, he found that it was split. Next, he checked the apartment door. The wood around the old fashioned lock was splintered and broken; the tongue sticking out in its locked position. He HAD locked the door; his attacker had been playing mind-games. Engaging the deadbolt and latch—something he'd never done before—he wedged a chair underneath the door handle. Then he went to the closet and grabbed a suitcase, filling it with a hurriedly selected armful of clothes yanked from their hangers and throwing a first aid kit on top. He dressed, picking out a pair of dark pants and shoving wads of toilet tissue down the back to absorb the blood. Then he pulled on a black shirt, leaving the tails out. The clothes chafed against his tender skin, but made him feel more secure, safe.

Throwing on a jacket, he unlocked the door again and, looking around constantly, headed for the residents parking level. He didn't feel in any condition to drive, so he called for a cab. It arrived within minutes, and dropped him off at the Sheraton on the bay. The receptionist stared at his battered face as she filled his request for a room, and he tried to ignore her pitying looks. He knew he looked like shit, but it was no concern of hers as long as he had sufficient credit for his stay. He accepted his key card with a word of thanks and a strained smile, rejecting her offer of a porter to carry his bag and following her directions to the elevator. Once in his room, he ensured that all the locks were engaged, then headed straight for the bathroom. He filled the deep bathtub, running his credit chit through the reader mounted on the wall in order to pay for the additional water he would need to fill the tub. A shower just wouldn't cut it—he needed to soak in a hot tub for an hour.

Climbing into the tub was agony and he cried out as the water slipped over his injuries. The intense pain gradually lessened to a state of blissful numbness, aided by the healing powder he added to the water. He took a washcloth and gingerly dabbed at the wounds on his face. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and he closed his eyes against them, shifting in the tub so that he could lay down in it. He ducked his head under the surface, staying submerged for a long time, his intensive water polo training giving him wonderful lung capacity. He stayed in the tub for nearly two hours, the in- built heater keeping the water warm. When he finally got out, he was feeling calmer, though he looked somewhat like a prune.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door, he took his first good look at himself since the rape. He was a mess—left eye swollen completely shut, lips puffed up to twice their normal size, nose puffy and tender. His eyebrow was split. The warm bathwater had bought out the bruising on his torso, and his skin was turning purple.

Retrieving the first aid kit from his bag, he daubed antiseptic on the contusions. His back was red and sore—rug burn—and he tried as best he could to spread the soothing cream over the sore area. He looked like a broken man, his eyes empty and bleak. He headed for the huge hotel bed, leaving the bathroom light on and taking a towel with him, which he spread over the mattress. He'd mostly stopped bleeding now, but the towel was a precaution, just in case.

Climbing into bed, he turned on the reading lamp then curled up under the blankets, pulling them up under his chin. His sense of violation was growing, making him in turn angry and lost. The pain in his abdomen and the small of his back told him that he should probably be in the emergency room getting looked at, but he couldn't risk Starfleet finding out, not now, coming into the home stretch of building the Enterprise. It was common knowledge that Starfleet had him earmarked for her eventual Captain, and Rear Admiral Forrest had made it clear that Commander Archer was expected to be above reproach in both his personal and professional lives. He wasn't to give the Vulcan High Command any ammunition for the case they would undoubtedly bring against his being Captain of Earths first warp-5 vessel. And a potential Captain being the victim of a sexual assault would most certainly be more than adequate for the Vulcans to build an argument around. They were already accusing Starfleet of Nepotism—no love lost between the Vulcans and the Archers—and they'd just love having something else to add to their long list of supposed reasons why Jonathon Archer wasn't fit to Captain a hover car, let alone a Starship.

The tears started again. He felt incredibly sorry for himself. What was wrong with him? 38 years old, huddled in a hotel bed, trying—and failing—to come to terms with being violently and brutally assaulted. He should have been at home in bed with a husband or a wife, safe and secure next to the person that he loved, not shivering in a strange bed.

"Shit," he whispered, punching his pillow. "Shit, shit, _shit_." What had started out as a fleeting punch turned into a full- on onslaught, his anger emerging as a broken yell. The self-pity was gone, replaced with anger. He was the victim here, dammit—he wasn't to blame. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he had no choice but to come to terms with what had happened to him. Deal with it, move on, and get on with his life.

At times like this, he really felt the gaping hole the death of his parents had left in his life, particularly his dad. His mom had died when he was 10, so he'd lived without her much longer than he'd lived with her, but his dad—he'd only died just a year previously, and Jon was only just emerging from the bleak period of mourning Henry Archer's death had thrown him in to. He desperately needed someone to talk to. Not about the rape; he didn't think he would ever be able to tell anyone about that—but about life in general. Just to know that someone gave a damn about him. He had friends, but they were scattered all over the country, and he needed a little human contact, not a remote image over a vid-phone. How sad was his life that he had nobody to turn to? No family, no lover, a handful of friends. Just a starship that existed on paper only, still years away from being constructed in the space dock that was being built miles above the earth.

He hunkered down in the bed again, pushing away the melancholy that threatened to overwhelm him. Sleep was a long time coming, and when it finally claimed him, he didn't rest easily, tossing and turning on unfamiliar sheets.

Morning found him stiff and sore and more than a little disorientated. It took him a moment to remember where he was; a blissful moment of almost-peace until the memory of his violation some 15 hours previously flooded back, leaving him shaky.

He cleared out of the hotel room within a half hour of waking, determined to go back to his apartment and stay there. He wasn't going to let some piece of scum shitbag chase him out of his home. It was time to pick up the pieces.

Once in his apartment, his resolve nearly fled when he opened the door to his bedroom and saw the bloodstained rug. He forced himself to move, and rolled up the soiled rug, shoving it into a garbage sack. Then he fixed the door, changing the locks and reinforcing the splintered jamb. That kept him busy for half an hour, and then he turned his attention to tidying the rest of the apartment. He was waxing the wooden floor in the living room when he saw something by the couch. An ID badge.

He picked it up, and found himself looking at a holo-pic of his rapist—Alex Henderson, an employee of MaxTech Inc. a communications and computing company based in San Francisco. Archer crumpled the thin plastic badge in his fist, then pocketed it. Henderson was a fool as well as a bastard.

Three Months Later

Jon stood in the shadows and watched Henderson leave Liaisons, his heart pounding. The man was alone and walked fast, hands in pockets. The slight roll to his gait suggested that he'd tied a few on that evening; his dishevelled clothing gave credence to the theory.

Jon fell into step behind him, not making a sound. His tactical training came to the fore, and he stalked Henderson, tailing him with efficient quietness.

Henderson turned off down a dimly lit street, and Jon made his move. He rushed the man, tackling him around the waist and throwing him to the ground like the piece of trash that he was. Forcing him onto his back, he straddled him, pinning him to the floor.

"Recognise me, you bastard?"

"I..."

"You raped me. Made my life hell. I've dreamt about finding you, and beating the shit out of you. Every single night. " Archer pulled his fist back, then rammed it into Henderson's face. "What gave you the right to come into my home and rape me, you worthless piece of shit?"

"Don't rape me, " Henderson begged. He was crying, snot and tears running down his bloodied face. "Please don't rape me."

"I don't rape people, you snivelling fuck. But I am going to beat the shit out of you." As a counterpoint to his words, Jon laid into the man with a relish that frightened him. The rage was all consuming, and by the time he had expunged it, he was left exhausted and panting, and Henderson was pretty much unconscious, his face a weeping, broken mess.

Jon grabbed him by his shirtfront, pulling him up close. "Don't even think of going to the police. I have friends in very high places, and if I find out that you kicked up a fuss, then I will see to it that you are strapped to the hull of the next available Vulcan starship and used as a hood ornament." Letting the man drop back to the ground, Jon took a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. "You ever, _ever_ come near me again, and I swear, I'll kill you." With that, he turned his back on the man and walked away.

Two Weeks Later

Jon sat in the shuttle, staring out of the window as they began to lift off. The collar of his dress uniform was cutting into his neck, so he hooked a finger in front and pulled it down a little. The shuttle was on a course for Titan and Jon was happy to be leaving Earth, even if it was only for a month; he needed to get as far away as possible for a while. Within a matter of seconds, they were up in the Stratosphere, the bright blue darkening to inky black sprinkled with pin-prick stars. A sense of peace settled over him—he loved it out here.

"You OK, Commander?" the man sitting next to him asked.

"Hmmm?" Jon turned his head to look at the Lieutenant j.g. sitting next to him.

"I said, are you OK? You look kinda pale. " The man was young, maybe 24, 25, and enthusiasm seemed to pour out of him. His hair was blond, his eyes blue, his nose snub. He held out his hand. "I'm Charles Tucker the Third. Trip."

"Jon Archer." Jon shook Tucker's hand. "Had a rough night last night. One too many in a bar."

"Hey, been there, done that, got the a.w.o.l brain cells to prove it. You Henry Archer's son?"

"Yeah. Did you know him?"

"I met him a couple of times, he gave lectures at my high school. He's why I joined Starfleet. When I grow up, I want to be an Engineer just like good ol' Henry Archer."

"You're in Engineering?" Jon asked, intrigued by the quirky young man.

"Uh huh. What about you? What's your speciality?"

"Jack of all trades. Started out as a helmsman, moved into Engineering, some navigational and tactical."

"You been working on that beauty that'll be up here soon? Damn shame your daddy won't be here to see it." Trip's eyes grew wide. "I can't wait to get my hands on her. I aim to be Chief Engineer on that baby."

Jon mentally appraised the kid. Given 10 years or so, he could easily imagine Charles Tucker the Third as Chief Engineer of the ship he was pencilled in to captain.

They passed the rest of the journey talking, an instant friendship formed. They had a lot in common, it turned out, and the personality differences complimented the other. When they reached Titan, they requested, and were given the same room assignment. The first week of training passed in a blur. Jon was given word that he was in the running for promotion to Captain based on the results of his initial assessment on Titan. That was the first step on the road to taking command of Enterprise.

Saturday night found him in a bar with a bunch of Starfleet enlisted. Everyone was happy, letting off steam.

"So, C'pn, you seeing anyone?" Ever since hearing base scuttlebutt about Jon's possible promotion, Trip had taken to calling Jon that at every opportunity.

"No. Just coming out of a long-term relationship. Joanna. She screwed around on me then dumped me, because I apparently loved Enterprise more than her." Jon shrugged. "She was right. How about you?"

"The same. Micky dumped me too. Same reason. Said he didn't want a boyfriend at Starfleet's beck and call." Trip shrugged too. "And, yeah, he was right. It's been the same in every relationship I've had. No one wants to hoo up with a Starfleet lackey. When you get posted, it's not a couple thousand miles away, it's a couple million."

"Yeah, kinda hard to pack a family off to the moonbase for two months." So, Trip liked guys? "Long distance relationships never work out. Not for me, leastways." Jon drained his coffee cup, and the waitress—a human, probably a Starfleet brat—was there in an instant to refill it. She was flirting like crazy, bending low to flash her admittedly substantial cleavage. When she leaned across him to top up Trip's cup, she grabbed hold of his shoulder for balance, and let it linger there a moment before sashaying off. Something in the front of his shirt irritated his chest, and he fished out a slip of paper. A com number was scrawled on it, along with the name 'Lenia'. She saw him look at the paper, and smiled widely.

"She left you her number?" Trip moaned. "Oh, Jonny boy, if you don't want her, I'll take her off of your hands."

"Thought you liked guys?"

"Men and women. Widen the field. She's got a great lil' ass on her. I'd go for a little one night only action with -" he took the slip of paper—"-with Lenia.

"Not my style. Call me stupid, but I like to get to know someone before I sleep with them."

"Nah, that's not stupid. I might not sound like it, but I'm the same way. Had about four steady relationships in the last 8 years or so. Plenty of guys and gals I'm interested in, but I jus' don't have the time to get to know them, and my job don't make it any easier." Trip quirked a smile that made Jon wonder how anyone could ever refuse him anything. "Guess I should start looking in Starfleet for potential relationships. At least then they'd know what the life was like.""I tried a relationship with a Lieutenant once, but it didn't work out. We never saw each other, because we were assigned different ships, and our leave never matched up. We broke up over a subspace communication." Suddenly depressed over the turn the conversation had taken, Jon stood. "I'm gonna call it a night. I'm kinda beat. " The group protested, and he gently declined their pleas for him to stay a while longer.

"You know what, I'm ready to go to. Walk with you?" Trip asked.

"Sure." They made their farewells and left.

Nightfall on Saturn's moon was beautiful. Saturn hung in the sky like a Christmas tree ornament, and the stars were all shining. There was no breeze—the bio-bubble prevented any natural weather, and the oxy-unit pumped O into the artificial environment at a steady pressure.

Jon tipped his head back to look up at the alien sky, with its peculiar star system. "It's pretty out here."

"Yeah," Trip agreed softly. "I could star watch all night. All I wanted to do as a kid was be out here. Still seems like a dream sometimes." He lay down on the transplanted grass—cultivated by the scientists that helped terraform Titan—and pillowed his head in his cupped hands. "Why dont'cha lay down so I don't look so much like a damned fool?"

With a chuckle, Archer stretched out next to his friend. The starscape was even more amazing from this angle. All he could see was black sprinkled with silver. It was like floating free in space. "Man, I could stay here all night," Trip sighed.

Jon turned his head to the side to look at the younger man, and grinned at the childlike expression on the handsome features. He felt overwhelmed with—what was the feeling? Then the grin faded as he recognised the strange chest-tightening, breathtaking sense of joy for what it was—he was falling in love with Charles Tucker. He closed his eyes as denial and fear gripped him. He couldn't fall in love. The idea of any romantic relationship made him want to vomit. He must have made a sound because Trip tapped him on the arm. "You OK, Jon?"

"Uh—yeah. Just thinking about Joanna." He pressed the swell of his forearm across his eyes, fighting to calm his racing heart. "No good'll come of doing that. It'll just cause you a whole load of heartbreak. Believe me, I've done it."

"I think I'm just going to swear off relationships for a while," Jon decided. "I'm sick off all the bullshit that comes with it. I'm 38 years old, and relationships just aren't getting any easier."

"Hey, I'm 25 and it ain't exactly romance and roses for me, either. Ya just got to be philosophical about it. If it's gonna happen, it'll happen." Trip rolled on to his side to face Jon, propping his head on his hand. "Take each day as it comes and for what it is."

"Pretty profound, Trip." Uncomfortable with the familiarity of Trip's casual posture, he sat up. "I don't know. I just feel like I don't have a direction. No idea what I am doing with my life." Trip clapped him on the shoulder. "You're an Engineer Jon, and a jet jockey, and soon you're gonna be a Captain. The lady that's about to be built in space dock is your first love, and always will be. You've got a great career, people respect and admire you. You've got your health, your looks, your intelligence. You'll find some lucky lady to share that with."

"Huh." Jon lay back down again, forcing him self to relax. Trip had assumed that he was straight; showed no indication that he was attracted to him. Jon didn't have to worry about knocking trip back because of his own inability to form a meaningful relationship. He could force his own feelings of attraction away, and concentrate on being friends.

Trip was right. He didn't _need_ love, not outside of the love of family and friends, anyway. He didn't need sex—hell, after what he'd been through, he didn't care if he never slept with anyone again—and loooong, lonely nights on a succession of starships meant that he was very skilled in the multitudinous art of the 'five knuckle shuffle'. After all, sex was just flesh meeting flesh, and hell, his hand could do that quite nicely.

"You know what, trip, you're right. I've got a lot going for me, and Damnit, I'm just going to get on with it."

"That's the attitude I want to hear." Trip nodded approvingly. "Live for the now, right?"

"Right," Jon echoed. "Yeah, I'm going to."

April 12th, 2152

Jon woke slowly, cradled in warmth. Trip's arms were tight around him, holding him so close that they were sharing breath. He stretched, rubbing his stubbled cheek against his lover's lightly downed chest. After years of shying away from intimacy, it was nice to waken secure in the embrace of a lover. He looked up to find the other man watching him.

"Morning, Jonny."

"Morning." Jon opened his mouth to receive Trip's kiss, insinuating a tongue between his soft, enticing lips.

"I could get to like this, you know," Trip said, as he ran his fingertips over Jon's bicep, his touch light and teasing, barely touching Jon's skin.

"Good. Because I think we'll be waking up this way for a long time to come. I just wish that we'd done this sooner." Jon closed his eyes, remembering the dream he'd just woken from. Well, not exactly a dream, more a reliving of what he'd gone through almost a decade previously. "Charlie, if I had any sense I'd have been all over you like Vulcans on a Starship."

"It was the right thing to do. Wait, I mean. Jon, you went through so much shit. Try to start a relationship too soon after somethin' like that, well, somethin'll give. And believe me, this was more than worth waiting for."

"I'm glad that you think that." Jon snuggled in close. "I know that the hurt is never going to go completely away. But that won't be because of anything you have or haven't done. I suppose if I tried, I could forget..."

"You shouldn't. It's a part of your life. A crappy part, but it made you the man that you are. Ignore it, and you'll go plumb crazy."

Jon had to laugh. "I just dreamed about you getting deep." "I can do deep," Trip grinned, thrusting his crotch against Jon's hip. "You know what I mean," Jon scolded, fondly. "You like to make out you're this good ol' boy, and then you come over all philosophical."

"Uh huh. Now, this good ol' boy is ready for some breakfast on account of being ridden hard all night by his c'pn. Shall we go get some in the mess?"

"Together?"

"Yeah, together. You said we should let the crew in on our relationship, that it wouldn't be a problem. And Hoshi says they've been betting on us getting together...I think now is the time to do it. If we just go out there, act like it isn't a big deal, then it won't be to them, either."

"I guess." Jon rolled out of bed. "Come and shower with me." They showered remarkably quickly, all things considering, limiting their fooling around to a kiss and some fondling, though they did have to set the shower to cold for a few moments.Stepping out of the cabin hand in hand felt pretty strange.

Jon had to admit to feeling more than a little nervous—in his experience, captains were—well, not aloof exactly, but at the very least, a little removed from their crew. And whilst that wasn't his command style, he feared that his relationship with Trip would undermine his authority. The centuries old military rulings on fraternization that Starfleet used as a guideline made sense; would his crew worry that he would favour Trip in command decisions, or hesitate when sending him on a potentially dangerous mission? He knew that, faced with a choice like that, he would have reservations—but he would work through them. Would his crew realise that, though? Would they be able to separate Jon Archer from Captain Archer? Apparently so. As they walked into the mess, they got smiles and nods from the dozen or so crew sat at the tables. Jon had been told that the crew had known about their attraction to each other before they even knew it themselves—and it seemed to be right, as their appeared to be little or no surprise amongst the assembled crewmen.

Hoshi was tucked away in the corner with Mayweather, and when she saw them walk in, her face lit up and she stood, walking over to them as they took their food to their own table. She slipped into the seat next to Jon, grinning.

"It's official?" she asked, her voice breathy. "I can gossip about you now, and say what a cute couple you make? Please say yes."

"I bet this has been killing you, hasn't it? Keeping quiet?" Trip teased.

"Yes!" She grabbed Jon's arm. "You have to let me tell someone, otherwise my head is going to explode."

Jon shared a look with his lover, trying to hide his grin and failing. Hoshi was so sweet in her enthusiasm; he only hoped that the rest of the crew shared her attitude. "Well...ok. You can tell people. But I only want nice gossip, nothing malicious."

Her reaction was very much that of the 24-year-old woman that she was; she squealed. If she'd been standing, she would have been bouncing up and down for joy. "Thank you! Everyone is going to be so happy for you!" She looked at Jon, as if seeking permission to leave, brown eyes as pleading as Porthos' when asking for cheese. "Go. Gossip," he told her, with a gentle push against her arm and an indulgent grin. He'd always thought Hoshi was wonderful; he'd loved her bright, inquisitive mind as a 15-year-old prodigy, and he'd tutored her throughout Starfleet Academy. She wasn't your typical Starfleet candidate—a little timid, preferred the classroom to the field—but she'd made him proud this past year, and he'd never doubted his decision to bring her on board. He was old enough to be her father; and as he wasn't going to be having children, he cherished their relationship.

She was off across the room in a shot, heading for Travis, who was soon smiling like a fool.

"That's it, Jonny. We're out," Trip commented, reaching across the table to take Jon's hand.

"Mmmm hmmm," Jon caressed Trip's fingers with his thumb. "You know, we've only been together for three days, but it feels like we've been together for years."

"We have. You're my best friend, Jon—this feels like the most natural thing in the world to me. We know pretty much everything there is to know about each other. Most people going into a relationship don't have that kind of familiarity. I figure we got the best start anyone could hope for. Face it, even with all I know about you, I still love ya." Trip raised Jon's hand to his lips, and brushed a kiss against his knuckles, before releasing his grip. Jon blushed, feeling heat rise up his face, and Trip guffawed. "You're blushin' like a virgin, Jonny."

Mock scowling, Jon kicked his lover in the shin. "It just seems odd doing this in front of my crew. Captains aren't supposed to do this kind of thing."

"You're not just any Captain, though, are you? The rules don't apply out here. We're out here for the long haul, six, seven years. Starfleet don't expect you to be by yourself for all that time. And friendly as Porthos is, you need some human lovin', too."

"That's it, you're making the call to Admiral Forrest."

"You nervous about that? They're not going to court-martial us, ya know. As long as we keep our relationship strictly off-duty, they won't care."

"I guess." Jon picked at the congealed eggs on his plate, his appetite vanished. "I just worry. I'm happy for the first time in years, and I'm scared it's all going to be taken away from me. "

"Aaaw, babe. I don't intend to go anywhere, leastways, not without a fight." Trip's gaze was intense, the blue depths speaking of love, unconditional and limitless. Trip made Jon feel like the centre of the Universe.

"Good." Jon jumped as T'Pol stepped up to the table, her brow arched. "T'Pol."

"Captain, Commander. I have been informed that you are in a relationship with each other. Is this correct?"

Jon had to make a conscious effort not to squirm, feeling like a schoolboy. What had Hoshi done, announced it over the ship com system? News sure travelled fast on this ship. "That's correct, Sub- Commander. Rest assured, we will keep the relationship off of the bridge. And however illogical you find a loving relationship between two men, we are very much in love and intend to stay that way." That brow seemed to rise even higher at his words. "Why would I find it illogical?"

"I—I just thought you'd think sexual relationships between members of the same sex pointless as they can't produce a child." "If you were to be in love with one another yet not accept or act upon it, I would have to consider the logic in that reasoning. But I find two consenting adults in love to be natural and logical behaviour. Not all sexual relationships result in the production of off-spring, whether that relationship is between two members of the opposite sex, or otherwise." She paused, looking from first Jon to Trip then back again. "I must report for duty. My best wishes and congratulations to you both."

They watched her leave, both stunned to silence. "Did we just get the Vulcan seal of approval on our relationship?" Trip asked. "I guess." Jon turned to glance around at the assembled crew. "I know I've said all along that I didn't think this was a big deal, but I still thought the crew would have more of a problem dealing with it. But they seem to be..."

"Happy," Trip finished. "They're happy for us, Jon." A mischievous grin spread across his face. "I've got the day off, and you don't go on duty for another four hours, right?"

"Uh huh. Your point?"

"The crew know we've just started seeing each other. It'd disappoint them if we sat here eating breakfast when there are so many more things that we could be doing..." He leered suggestively. "It's kind of our duty, Jonny."

"Sure it is," Jon laughed, shaking his head. "But it's not just the crew that would be disappointed if we didn't meet their expectations. I would be too." He pulled Trip to his feet. "Let's go carry out our 'duties'."

"Aye, aye, Captain." With a salute, Trip nodded to their audience, Jon gave an embarrassed little wave, and they left the mess, a din of gossiping voices erupting as soon as the doors slid shut behind them.

"This is the part I don't like," Jon moaned. "The part where they talk about us behind our backs.""Relax. They're probably taking bets on how long it'll be

before you make an honest man out of me. But for right now, I'm content to live in sin." He kissed Jon, pushing him back against the wall. "I love you. Now, lets get back to your cabin and fuck." "OK." Jon let his lover lead the way. He still couldn't quite believe it. After nearly a decade of holding back from romantic relationships and denying his feelings for Trip, here he was; content, happy and in love. He still had the feeling that he was waiting for the bubble to burst—and he was liable to feel that way for quite some time—but Charlie knew just the right words to make him secure. With Trip, he could be needy, insecure, let go of the rigid control he had to keep his emotions in check with when being Captain. He could be Jon.

He paused, tugging Trip's hand. "Charlie?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"I love you." He put his soul behind the words. He hadn't told Trip that enough these past few days; Trip said it pretty much every time he opened his mouth. "I love you so much. You need to know that."

The smile that Trip gave him was...beautiful. "I know, Jonny. Believe me, I know."

"Good." They shared another kiss, and Jon finally felt able to let go of the hurt that had haunted him for 9 years. He was safe, he was happy, and he was loved. Nothing else mattered.


End file.
